


breathed so deep i thought i'd drown

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Choking, Fighting Kink, Hair-pulling, Other, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Any particular reason you decided to visit?” asks Lying, suspicion laced in every syllable as they watch Kirin meander across the room towards them. He moves slowly and carelessly enough to make it seem random, but Lying sees it for what it is – Kirin’s cornering them, slowly and patiently and very deliberately.</p>
<p>“Oh, no, not really.” Kirin brushes fingers over the wall again, and smiles in a way that’s somehow both genuine and entirely fake. It’s an unbearably smug expression. “Just thought I’d drop in on an old friend."</p>
<p>(Kirin pays a visit, Lying is impatient. The situation devolves from there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathed so deep i thought i'd drown

**Author's Note:**

> again, something i'd like to blame on someone else - yogshameblog and [this fantastic picture](http://yogshameblog.tumblr.com/post/100556253738/hair-pulling-was-something-i-needed-in-this), in this case - but can't really considering how little cajoling i needed to write it.

“What a beautiful place.” Kirin trails one finger over the skystone that makes up the walls of Lying’s altar room, an appreciative sort of twist to his lips. The glowstone-infused bricks beneath his feet flare with every step, pinpricks of light against the diffuse glow of the setting sun from the walls.

Lying knocks a chalice of redstone soup over as they whirl around, magic hot on their fingertips – only to snuff it out with a sigh when they see who it is. “How did you get in here?” they demand, and scowl when Kirin laughs.

“You’re not the only one with ways and means, my friend,” he says, smiling a smile that makes Lying want to claw it off his face.

Settling for a mild hiss of irritation instead, they clear the spilt redstone soup with a wave of their hand and a muttered incantation. Admittedly, their well is hardly heavily defended right now, but some of the preliminary wardings they’ve put up should have at least warned them about his approach.

They’ve pulled a similar trick with Kirin’s base before, sneaking in unannounced, but it’s considerably less fun when they’re the victim in the equation.

“Any particular reason you decided to visit?” asks Lying, suspicion laced in every syllable as they watch Kirin meander across the room towards them. He moves slowly and carelessly enough to make it seem random, but Lying sees it for what it is – Kirin’s cornering them, slowly and patiently and very deliberately.

They don’t particularly appreciate the way it makes them feel like a wounded animal. Like prey. Resisting the urge to fidget, they carefully and pointedly keep their eyes on Kirin as he advances.

“Oh, no, not really.” Kirin brushes fingers over the wall again, and smiles in a way that’s somehow both genuine and entirely fake. It’s an unbearably smug expression. “Just thought I’d drop in on an old friend, see how you were doing. I’m impressed with the progress you’ve made, I must say.”

Lying sighs.

They know how this dance starts, and how it ends. If they leave it to Kirin to get past vaguely barbed niceties, they’ll both be here all night, and Lying has things to do – especially with the loss of a chalice of redstone soup. They really don’t have the patience for games right now, especially Kirin’s irritatingly gentle brand of them.

Kirin blinks when Lying reaches back to carefully right the now-empty chalice and then takes a step forward, but says nothing. The movement brings them toe-to-toe with Kirin, leaves them with their head tilted up to meet his eyes.

Even when they rise to balance on tiptoes, they have to reach up and grab at Kirin’s hair and horns, drag his head down to make their lips meet. Kirin looks surprised by it, makes a faint noise of shock that’s not in the slightest bit displeased, winds an arm around Lying’s waist and leans easily down into the kiss.

He looks less surprised when Lying sinks pointed teeth into his lip, but he doesn’t break the kiss. Instead, he slides a hand up to their jaw to cup it and tilt their head up, leans down and into the press of their lips with a hungry noise.

The lack of reaction annoys Lying, makes them reach up grab at Kirin’s shoulders. It’s easy enough to push the robes off his shoulders, to rake pointed nails across the exposed skin perhaps a little harder than they should, and the way Kirin flinches and groans into their mouth is nearly enough to make them purr.

“You look good in red,” says Lying, when they finally step back to admire their handiwork. Kirin is panting, robe pushed off his shoulders and down, crumpled around his waist and tangling his arms up in the sleeves. They’ve left scratches over the newly-exposed skin, jagged and crimson-edged, blood beading along the length of them.

Kirin makes an irritated noise, fumbles with the sash still holding his robe up, and finally managing to discard the entire bundle of fabric in a careless heap at his feet. “Hmm,” he murmurs, doubtful, inspecting the gouges and pretending he hasn’t noticed the way they’re looking at him.

It’s less sexual and more hungry. Starving. Like Lying’s honestly not sure whether they want to fuck him or eat him.

When they lunge at him again, though, he’s ready for them – grabs their wrist and twists it behind their back, spinning them around and shoving them into the edge of the altar. They snarl when it digs into their stomach, squirm and kick out at Kirin’s shins, but his grip’s solid. He has the weight advantage, pinning them in place by merit of sheer height and bulk, and eventually Lying gives up on trying to wriggle out in favour of sinking nails deep into the restraining arm Kirin’s curled around their shoulders.

Kirin doesn’t blink, not even when blood begins trickling over his forearm, beading in the hair of it. “Tell me when you want to stop being a brat,” he says, mouths at the side of Lying’s neck and lets his beard scratch at the juncture between throat and shoulder.

“I am not a brat,” says Lying, voice icily offended. They curl their fingers inwards a little, dig shallow chunks out of Kirin’s arm and suppress a bolt of irritation at his lack of reaction. Kirin just chuckles, crowds them a little closer to the altar, and presses his hips forwards against theirs to grind gently against them. “And you’re disgusting.”

A faintly wounded noise from Kirin, a nip of blunt teeth against the vertebrae of his neck, and Lying sighs. They let go of Kirin’s arm, quietly savouring the way he hisses at the scratch of their nails as they pull back. “Let go of me and I’ll take my clothes off,” they say exasperatedly, irritated with how slow this all is. “Honestly, at this rate, we’re going to be here all night. I don’t have the patience for your little dominance displays right now.”

It’s a lie – they love this, their fights and the push-pull of power between them – but Kirin doesn’t need to know that.

Kirin makes a suspicious noise- He knows all of Lying’s tricks a little too well now- but the desire to see Lying naked overrides caution. “Go ahead,” he says, sucks a bruise against the exposed sliver of shoulder between Lying’s collar and their neck before he shuffles back just an inch and releases their wrist. “Please don’t try to tear my throat out again, though.”

The only answer he gets is a soft giggle that is the opposite of reassuring, but Lying doesn’t try anything – immediately, at least. They fiddle with the hem of their shirt instead, tugging it out of their sash and drag it over their head. Unlike Kirin, they’re careful with their clothes – draping the shirt over one corner of the altar before slipping the sash and their trousers down over their hips and off their feet to do the same.

It’s then that they try and strike.

When Lying tries to whirl around, teeth bared and a sharp-nailed hand aiming for the throat, Kirin’s ready. He grabs their hips hard enough to bruise before they can turn to face him, fingers pressing skin against bone and pinning them to the altar. “Really?” he says, sounding more disappointed than anything. He laughs when Lying hisses and thrashes, and simply sprawls over them and pins them against the altar with his body, his chest against Lying’s back. “You really thought that would work?”

“No.” Lying smiles despite the way his face is pressed against the altar, showing off pointed, serrated-edged teeth. They look entirely unconcerned. “But it was fun.” They push themself back up onto their tiptoes again, use the extra height and leverage to grind back against Kirin’s very evident arousal, and smile even wider when he groans. “Now you’re the one  wearing too many clothes.”

“Yes,” agrees Kirin a little breathlessly, mouthing at the bruise rising on Lying’s shoulder from his teeth and biting another one next to it. “But I’m not sure I can let go of you long enough to get them off. I rather like my throat not being ripped out.

Lying giggles faintly, a soft and poorly stifled noise of amusement. “I promise I won’t rip your throat out if you take your trousers off,” they say, the sly note in their voice not at all reassuring. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“You can’t die,” points out Kirin, sighs when all he gets in response is more giggles.

He releases them all the same, though- lets go of their wrist and shuffles back a few inches to slip thumbs into the waistband of his trousers. It’s quick and easy, pushing the fabric down over his hips and kicking it away when it pools around his feet.

Despite the faint cold of the room, the damp sort of chill that invades every inch of the well no matter how well-heated, Kirin sighs happily at the feel of air against his skin. Bouncing up onto the balls of his feet, he stretches, reaches fingers towards the ceiling and rolls his shoulders. The noise of irritated impatience Lying makes only encourages him. He arches his back and lets out a soft groan of pleasure at the faint click of it and the sudden release of pressure. “Oh, that’s better.”

The knowledge that Kirin is behind them, gloriously naked, is faintly torturous. Lying wants to turn around, drink in the sight and touch – bite half-moon pinpricks into him and rake scratches over every inch of his skin – but they’d rather not get put in an arm lock and slammed against the altar again if Kirin thinks they’re going for his throat.

Not that they mind it in principle, but they’re getting impatient.

“All done.” Kirin moves forward, moulds himself against the curve of Lying’s back again. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the nub of their vertebrae and trails teeth down the line of their spine. Lying groans at the sharp pressure of it, arches up into the faint bite, and whines when Kirin pulls away in response. The trail of saliva across their skin cools as the air hits it, makes them shiver.

“A little help?” murmurs Kirin in their ear, trailing back up their spine to nip at the lobe of it. His hands on their hips are distracting, thumbs calloused and faintly ticklish as they swipe back and forth across his waist. “Or not, your choice - but you seem to be in something of a hurry.”

Lying hisses and struggles to gather the concentration to summon what they need in the face of Kirin’s lips on their skin. “You’re doing that on purpose,” they accuse, dragging in a hiss when one of Kirin’s hands slides sideways from their hip and across their stomach and dips down to curl around the base of their cock. “Arse.”

They don’t get an answer other than a chuckle, the press of lips to a tender rising bruise on their shoulder. Sucking in a breath, they do their best to ignore it – the warmth of Kirin’s mouth, the calluses on his fingers as he strokes their cock slowly – and curl their fingers abruptly around the small glass bottle when it appears in their hand. “Here. Here, take it.”

“Why thank you.” Kirin tries and fails to suppress his continued amusement, takes the bottle from Lying and then makes a wounded noise when they claw at his wrist. “Ow! Although I admitt, I did possibly deserve that.”

“You absolutely deserved that,” mutters Lying, turns their head to look behind them and groans quietly at the sight of Kirin absently licking the blood from his skin.

Kirin smirks, curls lips stained ruby-red with his own blood into a smile and dips his head in acknowledgement. In response, Lying spreads their legs wider and pushes themself up onto tiptoes again – a clear enticement.

Moments later the hand on their hip tightens and there are slick fingers at the base of their spine, sliding down and down and leaving a trail of cold until there’s the pad of a thumb over their hole. They arch their spine and purr in response, the cat that got the cream, press their forehead against the velvet-covered altar and breathe as Kirin slips his thumb inside them up to the first knuckle.

It’s strange, as it always is, the faint sense of intrusion that has them rocking back hesitantly and then forward again, a slow push-pull as they wait a heartbeat or two before pushing all the way back in a slow slide.

Kirin’s the one that groans at that, not Lying, the hand against their hip tightening again. His nails press against the skin there, and Lying knows if they weren’t so blunt they’d be drawing blood already. “Look at you,” he murmurs, the faintest brush of air against Lying’s shoulder blade as he exhales.

The not-quite-compliment makes Lying squirm a little, rock harder against Kirin’s thumb even as he crooks it slightly and and makes them groan. “More,” they demand, and Kirin complies, slips his thumb out and replaces it with two fingers.

This time Lying isn’t hesitant, is greedy, pushes back against the slow slide of them in. It’s delicious, thick and hot enough it warms them to their core – although that’s probably wishful thinking and the arousal speaking. They press their forehead harder against the altar, groan, try to tilt their hips up a little more and exhale shakily when Kirin pushes them in past the second knuckle and scissors them ever so slightly.

Impatient as they are, though, it’s not enough.

“You’re so slow,” hisses Lying, gasps when Kirin crooks his fingers inside them a little but manages to keep their words from dying in their throat. “Hurry up and fuck me already.”

Kirin hums, crooks his fingers again. It makes Lying twitch, a full-body shudder that they feel all the way from their scalp to their toes. The slowly spreading warmth of it is beautiful, heat pooling in their stomach, and they’re almost upset when Kirin withdraws his fingers. But only almost – the promise of Kirin’s cock as replacement makes it bearable.

He drags the motion out slowly, because he’s a tease, and Lying hates him for it just a little.

One hand curled tight around Lying’s hip again and the other around the base of his own cock, Kirin leans forward, nips at the side of Lying’s neck again and twitches his hips forward. A slow drag of his hand has him groaning, slick smeared over his cock, the head of it nudging against Lying’s hole.

He pushes into Lying slowly, painfully slowly. They groan with it, curl their toes into the brickwork and brace themselves against the altar with arms that tremble slightly.

The feel of Kirin’s chest against their back, warmer than a furnace and rough with slightly coarse hair, is both slightly foreign and more than welcome. They bask in the heat of it, let the warmth seep down to ease the eternal cold that seems to have settled in their bones, and for a long moment or two they’re content to stay there – Kirin draped over them, breathing heavy against the back of their neck, pressed deep inside of them.

“Hurry up,” they say eventually, a little reluctantly. There’s none of the earlier bite to their voice. This kind of physical contact, simple and undemanding, isn’t something they get often, and they’re almost sad to let it go. But they also really, really want Kirin to move already.

It’s a dilemma, but in the end sex wins out.

Kirin chuckles, but it’s shaky and breathless with arousal, and he sucks a mark into the side of their neck to give himself a chance to catch his breath. “Say please,” he manages eventually, groans when Lying shifts forward ever so slightly and then shoves back, grinds against Kirin with a snarl.

“Impatient.” Kirin tuts, still doesn’t move. “Maybe- if we…” He trails off thoughtfully, instead grabs at the soft length of Lying’s ponytail where it’s brushing against his stomach. It’s silky, difficult to get a grip on, but he manages it – winds his fingers in the fine strands of it until he’s got a firm enough hold to drag his hand backwards and pull. “There.”

Lying gasps sharply, back arching into an obscene curve as they lean back into Kirin’s grip to try and ease the pressure on their scalp.

They exhale in a shaky hiss, air through gritted teeth, eyes half-lidded as Kirin starts to roll his hips slow and easy against theirs. “If you ruin my hair, I will end you,” they say, proud of the fact they can still string sentences together when Kirin is obviously struggling.

Behind them, Kirin’s laughter is a low rumble up their spine, breath hot against their ear. “Okay,” he says, slides his hand sideways until his fingers tangle with theirs for half a second. Then he slides up, up, over the bruised skin of Lying’s wrist and up their arm, over their shoulder to curl a hand around their throat. His calluses are rough against the soft skin there, Lying’s pulse a rabbit-fast but steady thrum under his fingers, and he exhales shakily at the feeling.

Lying makes a sharp noise, somewhere between a hiss and a snarl, tries to tilt their head down to snap at Kirin’s fingers out of sheer force of habit.

“No,” says Kirin, mildly – although his actions tell a different story, rhythm stuttering and then starting up again just a fraction harder, a little more urgent. “Please don’t do that.”

They’re gratified to hear the shake in his voice, bite at thin air to try and hear it again. It’s futile, Kirin’s fingers tucked high up on their throat, under their chin – physically impossible for their teeth to reach – but it gives them a sense of satisfaction nonetheless.

“Don’t,” says Kirin again, voice a little sharper, the shake a little more pronounced. He winds his hand more tightly into Lying’s hair, a twisted rope of gold around his fist, tugs until Lying’s bent back on themself. Lying’s throat is a line of tension from the bend of it, trachea a faint bulge under his palm, and he tightens his fingers to hear the way it makes Lying’s breath catch.

He kisses the rattle right out of Lying’s throat, leans down and presses their lips together and doesn’t care about the way Lying’s teeth scratch. A sharp roll of his hips pushes Lying’s stomach harder against the unforgiving edge of the altar, and Lying bites down.

When Kirin pulls back, there’s blood in a thin trail down his chin, blood smeared on the wide, smiling curl of Lying’s lips.

“You deserved that,” says Lying, arms trembling a little with the effort of holding themself braced against the altar with their back pulled into such an extreme curve. Kirin doesn’t deny it, presses a faintly bloody kiss against the side of their neck and chuckles quietly.

He’s still being maddeningly slow, lazy half-rolls of his hips that gives Lying nothing and leaves them digging nails into the velvet cloth beneath their fingers. “Hurry up,” snaps Lying, kicks at his shin to try and force him into movement.

A second later, the air leaves their lungs a rush as Kirin slams into them, drives their hipbones painfully hard against the altar. If they weren’t being partially held in place by Kirin, they would have ended up sprawled across the front of the altar – as it is, they jolt enough that their scalp burns with the sudden tension in their hair.

They catch themselves, brace more firmly against the altar and wedge feet into the brickwork as best they can when they’re already up on their toes. “Better,” they hiss, pull their head forward to feel the pain in their scalp and the way Kirin’s hand tightens around their throat.

Kirin laughs breathlessly, the noise short and harsh and quickly muffled as he tilts his head down to kiss Lying again.

Words fail them, catching in their throat as they curl their hands into fists against the velvet-covered altar. They’re reduced to strangled gasps, something like a whine escaping them as the air leaves their chest with every thrust. Kirin fucks them like it’s a fight, like it’s a challenge, like he can’t quite help losing himself in the arch of Lying’s back and the vibration of strangled noises they make beneath his palm.

When Lying comes, it’s with a hand around their neck and stars behind their eyelids as their breath rasps in their throat.

Kirin pauses, draws in a shaking breath and stills with his hips pressed up against Lying’s. He tentatively eases his hold on their hair, slides his hand off their throat and instead curls his arm around their shoulders to take some of the strain off their arms.

Lying lets their chin drop to their chest, gasping, locks their knees to prevent them buckling and curls their toes into the cold brick under their feet. “Do I have to do everything myself?” they hiss, voice rough and raw despite the absence of a hand around their throat any more – they’ll be wearing a collar of bruises for days after this. They brace their hands a little more firmly against the altar and push their hips back as hard as they can.

The noise Kirin makes is broken, a low groan as he mouths kisses against Lying’s temple and cheekbone, breath coming in hot, shaky gasps. “Oh,” he manages, clutches Lying a little tighter to his chest and tugs on their hair again for a lack of anything else to cling to. “Oh.”

He pushes forward and Lying shoves back against him again, makes him groan and dig his teeth into the lobe of their ear. It’s a sharp jolt of pain and their breath catches, hips stuttering, but Kirin’s rocking into them harder and harder, an edge of urgency to his movements – which, really, was all they wanted.

They don’t have all night, after all.

It’s a little awkward to reach behind them and curl a hand around the base of one of Kirin’s antlers, but they manage it, Kirin’s arm around their chest taking enough of their weight that they no longer need to support themself quite so much. The grip gives them the leverage they need to pull Kirin towards them, force his movements into a counterpoint to their own.

“Oh, please,” mumbles Kirin against their neck, a breathless slur of syllables that hitches in his throat when Lying tugs on his antler. “Please-” His breath catches, leaves him in a shuddering exhale, hips stuttering as he loses his rhythm.

Grinning, Lying tugs him forward, slams back against him and turns their head enough to brush their lips against Kirin’s. “Come on,” they hiss, vicious and impatient and with an edge of delighted laughter to their voice, and they bite down on his lip again hard enough to draw more blood. “Come on.”

Kirin groans, pulls away to press his face against the join where Lying’s shoulder meets their throat, and comes.

They feel the way he shudders through it where his chest is plastered to their back, a transferred ripple of movement that sends relief through their whole body. Arms aching, calves burning with the strain of staying on their toes, they can’t help but grin in something like victory as they finally allow themself to relax.

The empty echoes of their shared panting bounces from wall to wall, filling the room. Kirin releases Lying’s hair, half-collapses over them and pins them to the velvet cover of the altar.

For a second, Lying tolerates it – tolerates Kirin’s weight and heavy breathing and the way he’s mouthing wetly at the side of their throat. Then they squirm, shove back against the weight over them and use their grip on one of Kirin’s antlers for leverage again. “Off!” they snap, heaving, until Kirin rolls over onto his back and off of them with an unhappy groan. “Get off me, you great oaf. Honestly.”

Kirin laughs. The sound’s deep and rich and echoing in the cavernous room. He drags a hand through the sweat-damp mess of his hair and tilts his head up to offer Lying a lazy, unapologetic grin.

Ignoring him completely, Lying sits up, cards fingers through their hair to try and ease out the worst of the tangles Kirin’s put in it with his mistreatment. It’s tedious and uncomfortable, and they abandon the task after a minute in favour of retrieving their robes. The tacky feel of drying come against their skin is unpleasant and they banish it with a wave of their fingers before slipping their shirt over their head and stepping into their trousers.

“At least you didn’t ruin my altar,” they say, when they’re finally fully clothed again, not quite managing the note of disinterested distain they were aiming for. Everything that was on the altar before is still there – albeit pushed to the sides a little, but they can fix that in minutes.

“So rude,” says Kirin, still a little breathless. There’s blood still on his lips, a drying trail of it down his chin, but he’s grinning. “Don’t I get a thank you?” Unlike Lying, he seems unbothered by his nakedness. He finally pulls himself up so he’s leant against the edge of the altar instead of sprawled across the width of it, scratches the back of his neck and winces a little when his fingers scrape the cuts across his shoulders and leave blood under his nails. “Or is that pushing things?”

Lying hums, their lips twitching in something that looks almost like an aborted smile. “Try harder next time, and we’ll see,” they say, and shake their head at the bark of laughter their words draw from Kirin.

 


End file.
